Jesus was a carpenter and He worked
And His hands could join a table
true enough to stand forever
And He might have spun His life out
in the coolness of the morning
But He put aside His tools and He
walked the burning highways
And He built His house from
And He found them as they wandered
through the wild Judean mountains
And He found them as they pulled
their nets upon the Sea of Galilee
And for a thousand evenings while
the day behind Him emptied
He put aside His tools and
stopped to touch the dying
And He built His house from
It was on a storming Sunday when
Were like the crimes they laid against Him
It was on a storming Friday when He
climbed the streets to Calvary
And where He died today why they're
selling beads and postcards
And they tell us too that
Oh, come again now Jesus be
There are chapels in our discontent,
cathedrals to our sorrows
And we dwell in golden mansions
with the sand for our foundations
And the raging water's rising and
the thunder's all around us
